


Ferelden Rose

by Toshi_Nama



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: Death doesn't end everything, even when it's a spouse. Unfortunately, a widowed King is asking for every woman to want to become queen. Alistair winds up making his own decision - one that no one expects!How do they mend hearts after they've both lost the one they've loved? A rose - their own Ferelden rose.
Relationships: Alistair/Anora Mac Tir
Kudos: 14





	Ferelden Rose

The evening should have been perfect. His daughter had actually gone to sleep, and he was finally sitting down to dinner. Flowers had bloomed in Denerim – the Darkspawn taint hadn’t destroyed his capitol the way it had Lothering. They glowed red and gold in the candlelight, the dinner spread out before them. Red and gold. Theirin colors.

The king sighed and fought back tears. Again. The splendid dinner couldn’t disguise the wrongness that rang through every evening in the palace. He brushed the single rose that always centered the table, perfect still. He’d kept it, taken it back, after.

 _‘There’s something about a Blight that brings people together.’_ She’d smiled, startled, at him in Ostagar. After Lothering, she’d huddled in his arms and sobbed – the nightmares had been hard for her. So strong, but…she’d smiled at his jokes.

They were the only things that could make her smile. Even their daughter…

Candide would never watch their daughter take her first steps, speak her first word, watch him get fat. During the hectic insanity of being m’lorded and ser king’d, he could almost forget until evening turned the wood of his private chambers the same color as her skin. She’d never leave him, he thought bitterly. No, she’d never leave the urn in the Theirin crypt. _‘Queen Candide Theirin, Warden and Hero of Ferelden.’_ He pushed away from the table, tear-blinded.

“Ser king?”

“I’m not hungry any longer. You can take it.”

The memories erased the sound of the door shutting behind him, leaving him in luxury. Their little girl was in the bedroom, warm in her little crib.

She should be here.

He should have been there, on Fort Drakon. He should have…she didn’t smile then, just pushed him back before she headed into the city. She’d looked at him then, her eyes damp. The smoke, he’d thought. “The people need their King, Alistair. Keep them safe.”

He couldn’t look at the rose any longer, the memory of what he’d had and lost. _His rose…_ Drops of blood wept from his tight fingers as he clenched it and clattered down the stairs, slowing with leaden steps. Teagan said that his heart would heal, that he’d find love again.

No. Teagan was wrong. 

“It will always be yours.” Trembling fingers touched the urn, and he turned away. He had a kingdom, and a daughter, and the whispers of the Darkspawn in the back of his mind. _‘One day, my love.’_ He knew better. He’d never see her beyond the Veil.

He still couldn’t leave the rose here. No, not her rose. She had his heart, always. It was harder at night, but he made his way back to his room and a thin wail.

Their daughter woke, Candide’s dark hair over the lines of his face, her eyes a startling gold. Alistair wiped the blood off his fingers, then went to rock them both to sleep. “You’ll learn, Candy. You’ll learn just how wonderful your mother was.”

**

“I won’t do it!” The past two years’ conversations had gone from hints to suggestions, and now Eamon was giving him something closer to an order. He didn’t care. He had Candy. 

“Your Majesty…”

He shook his head and glared. “I said I won’t, Eamon! If you love me, you won’t ask again. I’ve done so much for Ferelden, you can’t possibly be serious.”

The third man in the room just watched, his tired eyes as dark and worn as his hair and doublet. He might as well have been a shadow. It was a shadow Alistair could use.

“Fergus, you understand.” He hated the way his brother-in-law drew in a sharp breath, but that wasn’t why he said it. “Please, you know…”

Eamon clenched his jaw, but thankfully didn’t say anything. 

Not yet, anyhow. His uncle always had an opinion and advice. Of course, he was _supposed_ to, but that didn’t mean Alistair liked it. Especially he didn’t like it right now.

I _can’t._ “They’ll want...I can’t, Fergus. They aren’t...they aren’t _her.”_ His rose...

The other widower nodded. “They never will be, Alistair, but any of the young Bann’s daughters Eamon’s suggested will want to replace her. Not deliberately, but they want love, and romance, and a belly full of child.”

Eamon hissed. Alistair winced, even if he’d shouted something similar. He thanked Andraste that Candy was off with her nursemaid, undoubtedly playing in the mud with Warden. His... _her_ mabari had stayed, dedicated to Candy.

Before he could say anything, Fergus pushed himself off the wall and stepped forward.

“You’ve got another choice, though. A woman who’s intelligent, trained to law and politics, and who’s old enough and lost enough she won’t expect any of that. Someone who loves Ferelden, and not you.”

Who? Alistair tried to put the pieces together, but his uncle apparently got there first.

“You _can’t_ be serious! Her name and refusal to yield has left every dissident in Ferelden with a challenger to rally around!”

Wait.

“Anora? _Anora?_ You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

Fergus shook his head. Surely he hadn’t hit it on anything? But Fergus didn’t joke. He hadn’t once since they’d met.

“No, Alistair. I’m serious. They’ve all rallied around her name, yes - but tell me, has she done one thing to encourage them? She knows everything about every member of the Bannorn. Think about it. If she wanted a coup, she could have had it. You’d have never seen it coming. She won’t. My father - I learned a lot, training to become Teyrn. Nothing with Anora is simple, except for her pride and her love for Ferelden. She didn’t challenge Loghain because he was her father _and because he commanded armies and loyalty._ There was already unrest. The Queen and Ferelden’s hero going at each other would have ripped the country apart. She’s not challenged you, either. Not since the Landsmeet. Why not?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but Eamon ran over his heels to give it anyway.

 _“Because it’s not good for Ferelden._ Maker, Fergus, you could be right.”

Neither of them bothered to look at Eamon. Instead, Alistair studied Fergus. “Are you serious?”

“Ask her, Alistair. She’s widowed, too.” 

_Who else could understand?_

Slowly, he nodded. He wasn’t sure Fergus was right, but what would it hurt to just talk to her? He didn’t _have_ to ask her something like that, not right away. 

“We’ll see.”

Alistair walked out of the fancy, polished room he used as his royal study. As he did, Fergus clasped his shoulder. Who else could understand? He pressed his own hand on top of his brother-in-law’s, then kept going.

He needed to see his daughter.

He needed to think, but first - he wanted to play in the mud. Somehow, it was cleaner than politics.

**

**

“You and Daddy don’t sleep in the same bed.”

She looked down at the little black head. “No, dear, we don’t.”

There was so much she’d never told the girl - so much her father hadn’t either. Anora sighed, then patted the small couch next to her. She was...five now. Old enough to notice that they did things differently.

“Do you want more of the story?”

Eleanor’s little body was warm, her hand richly golden against her own paler skin. “I know the story. Mama died, and later you agreed to help Daddy. But if you’re king and queen, then you’re married - and if you’re married, why don’t you…”

Anora looked at the room, remembering back.

“You were two,” she said quietly. She remembered it well, remembered her own spiteful anger that had faded over time, destroyed completely by seeing Maric’s chin on the little whirlwind that ran into her.

**

_“Is my hair ugly?”_

_She’d looked down at the girl, then knelt next to her. “Who said something like that?”_

_“A girl. She said it was ugly. Is it?”_

_Did she even realize what ‘ugly’ meant? Looking at the tear-tracks, it didn’t matter. Those words had been said to hurt. “You have your mama’s hair, and your father loved her deeply. Including her hair, I assume. Have you asked him?”_

_“No. He’s not here. He’s busy. Is it?”_

_Anora nodded, and pulled down one of her own braids. “Mine is like my mother’s, too. My father..” she swallowed, “had dark hair. Dark like yours. I think it’s pretty.”_

_Her eyes were a lighter color, almost amber in the light. Anora had never realized, and swallowed again._ So could Cailan’s daughter have looked, had he had one… _“It’s a little messy. Can I brush it?”_

_“I don’t know you.”_

_“You don’t! I’m sorry.” It had been a long time since she’d dealt with children, but this lonely little girl was...enchanting. “My name is Anora. What is yours?”_

_“Daddy calls me Candy.”_

_She looked down at the girl. ‘Candy.’ Alistair would call her something different - something as close to her mother’s name as he could manage. The poor man. They’d talked a week ago, and he’d asked her here to talk again. Instead, his daughter had found her._

_“Well, we know each other now? I have a comb with me. We can wait here for your daddy, and I’ll help you brush your hair, alright? Then you can help me with mine.”_

_**_

“Your daddy was sad, and we were still angry with each other. He became king because his brother died, and I was sad and that meant I wouldn’t be queen anymore.” It was such a simple way to explain the stew of politics and emotion, but the Princess was still only five. “But you, my dear, helped us realize we could both care for the same thing.”

“Me.”

She chuckled and stroked the girl’s braided hair. “Yes, you. And then we realized we both loved Ferelden, too. That’s why we promised to help each other. You, little Princess.”

“But you’re not mama. He still loves mama.”

Anora nodded. It was choppy, but it always was when either of them talked about Candide or the events around the Blight. “Yes, dear. He will always love your mama. Candide Cousland Theirin. One of your names is for her. Candyce. It’s for her and for Warden Duncan, and for _her_ daddy.”

“I know my whole name. It’s _so_ long. Eleanor Rowan Candyce Theirin.”

“It is, but it’s also beautiful. Just like your hair.” She tweaked it, and the girl wrinkled her nose up at her.

“So’s yours, Anora.” She paused.

“What is it?”

The little girl looked up at her with eyes just a bit more golden than Alistair’s hazel. _They could have been Cailan’s eyes._ Heritage was a strange thing sometimes. It still made her wonder.

“You’re not my mama.”

Anora shook her head. “No, I’m not. That was something I promised you and Alistair when we married. Your mother is a hero, and will always be your mother.” It didn’t matter how much she’d come to love the girl as though she _was_ her own daughter, she’d promised.

“That’s not right. You said you’d never be my _mama._ But...can I...call you...mother? Please?”

Her heart stopped. _Mother._ She and Alistair weren’t _truly_ married, no matter the vows they’d taken. He was too like Cailan, and they both mourned, even five years later, for the loves they’d lost. Then again, that’s why they were able to wed. Neither expected the impossible. Anora breathed in the clean, soft scent of the girl next to her.

“I’d like that.” Her voice was a bit rusty, but she’d never hidden her emotions around little Eleanor. _Eleanor Rowan Candyce…_ “But it’s not just our decision, Eleanor. I made the promise to you and to your daddy. You’d need to ask him, too.”

She nodded and snuggled closer. “I can’t today. It’s his alone day with mama.”

No, not today. Today was the day the two of them usually spent together, or if Uncle Fergus was in Denerim, all three of them. Today, the only person Alistair could be around was in a small urn beneath the palace, Warden with him. The mabari mourned, just like he did. He brought her a rose every year, and they wouldn’t see either of them until Fergus or Wynne went to check on Alistair and make him sleep.

“I’ll help you remember. Promise. Today belongs to your mama.”

Eleanor nodded. “For daddy.”

“So, are you done with your lessons?”

The girl bounced up off of the sofa, not answering her question. “We can go play swords!”

Anora followed. “Not _play,_ Eleanor!”

“Work.” Her voice went singsong. “I know. I remember! ‘Swords are dangerous. They’re to practice, not play with.’ Can we go now? I’m wearing pants!”

Anora laughed. She hadn’t laughed so much in years, before she’d let the little dervish into her heart. “Give me two minutes to change. Scamp?”

A bark came from the other room, followed by a heavy black muzzle and powerful chestnut body.

“Are you coming with us?”

Her mabari huffed her agreement.

“Go on, Eleanor. You can get your jacket on, and I’ll be right there.”

**

“Come with me?”

Anora didn’t pull her hand from Eleanor’s, but she also didn’t follow the tug. “Where are we going?”

It had been a week of training, helping with the tutors, taking all the High Court and Council meetings, and trying to manage while Alistair took the time he needed. _Most_ of the Bannorn understood. The few who didn’t...well, most of them, she’d been able to quell with a look that had earned her the nickname ‘ice queen.’ They didn’t understand.

She’d be as cold as she needed, as _cruel_ as she needed, for Ferelden - and for its king. They’d never understand. Sometimes she didn’t. What had started out as a desire to care for little Candy - Eleanor now - had become a fondness for her father as well. He’d grown more astute over the years, but he still had the same big heart that made her ache thinking of her first husband.

“To see daddy.”

Anora chuckled at the sheer attitude in Eleanor’s voice. She had her own thorns, the little Princess did. “Of course we are. But we’re _walking._ I’m still in my court dress and slippers.”

“I like skating in mine!”

Of course she did. Anora smothered the memory of her doing the same thing - and being scolded by the various nursemaids - at the same age. On the same floors, even. 

“We’ll walk.”

Eleanor heaved a sigh.

“Do you like flowers? Do you have a special one, like mama? She was daddy’s rose - he’ll say that sometimes.”

“No.”

“Do you want to like roses, too? They smell so nice!”

How to explain? She couldn’t - Eleanor was still only five. Though, maybe she could. “Just a moment. Come on.”

“This isn’t the way to daddy!”

“Good girl. It’s not, but we’re going to stop somewhere first.” It didn’t take long to get to one of the courtyards. It wasn’t the memorial garden that Alistair tended himself, but it had one small prickly bush. “Here.”

Anora reached down.

“Don’t!”

“It’s alright.” With one hand she held the stem, and with her other she cut it with the little knife she kept on her belt. “Look.”  
  
Eleanor’s eyes were wide. “You’re bleeding! That’s why we don’t pick the roses, not unless we have gloves.”

True, but she could use this. 

“Look, dear. They have a sweet scent and are pretty, yes? But they also have their thorns. More than that - these aren’t the same as the rose bushes in Orlais or Antiva. They’re Ferelden roses. They’re not as big, but they can live through our winters and the rockier soil we have here. ‘Stubborn as a mabari’ is what we say, right? But you could also say that about a Ferelden rose. Stubborn as a rose - true as a rose. They’re not safe to pick - you see all the little thorns?” The two of them inspected the stem around her fingers, and the few drops of blood.

“Mama was a rose?”

Anora nodded. “Yes. Your mama was a Ferelden rose. She was strong, and beautiful, and stubborn, and never gave up.”

“She left me.”

There was a flatness to that. Oh, she’d find whichever Bann’s spoiled brat had said that around Eleanor and have _words_ with their parents, but that was for later. “No. No, not at all, love. She _loved_ you and your daddy so much, she gave everything to keep you safe, and save Ferelden, too. That’s why she’s a hero, our Ferelden rose.”

“I’m gonna be one, too.”

 _Maker, keep you from ever having to make that choice._ “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

They finally reached Alistair.

“She’s bleeding! She didn’t follow the _rules,_ and picked a rose. But it was a nice story, and I’m gonna be a Ferelden rose like mama!”

Anora met Alistair’s eyes over the Princess’ head. _No, I didn’t set you up for this._ His brows dropped back to normal. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t careful. Do you have a handkerchief?”

Eleanor let go of her hand and hurtled the five steps to get her hug from Alistair. He oofed and picked her up.

“Is mama a Ferelden rose? You gave her one, didn’t you? I’m going to be a rose, too.”

“Your mama loved the rose I gave her - and it _was_ a Ferelden rose.” He managed the flood of words with long practice, and squeezed her again before he put her down. “But Anora asked a question, Candy.”

“Did it prick her?”

He turned away a moment. “I’ve got to find something for Anora’s fingers - let me see what I have -”

Five years - then again, it had been six for her, and it had taken her five to be willing to try imprint on her Scamp. Cailan had loved the beasts so, and she’d never been able to look at a brindle without thinking of him and his talking about the different lines.

Alistair wrapped the kerchief around her fingers.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Politeness satisfied, he transferred a smile that warmed as he looked down. 

They _had_ managed to make things work over the years. It might not be love, but it was true, and comfortable. Anora smiled at the two of them together.

“So, what’s up, Candy?”

“Can I call her mother?”

His eyes flew back to meet hers. “What?”

Those horrible lines drew themselves back into the sides of his mouth. She couldn’t bear to see it, and her voice was sharp. “Eleanor!”

“I...I waited, Anora! You said it was ok to ask, and that I needed to because you made a promise to both of us! Please, daddy? Anora’s not mama, and she promised she’ll never try be mama, but...she can be a mother, right? We have Chantry mothers, so can I have a palace mother? Please?”

“Eleanor.” Anora spoke again. “Please go find your Uncle Fergus.”

“Daddy hasn’t answered yet!”

Alistair swallowed, the hint of a wail in his daughter’s voice pulling him from whatever void he’d almost fallen into. “Anora and I need to talk, Candy. That’s a big thing you’re asking. Go on - Scamp can find Uncle Fergus for you, right Scamp?”

When Anora nodded, the big bitch huffed an affirmative. Then she nudged Eleanor toward the door. “Daddy!”

“I’ll be there in just a few minutes, Candy, promise. Then we can have snack together?”

As soon as his daughter was safely out of the room, Alistair glared at her. “How _dare_ you put her up to this, Anora! After all these years…I thought better of you.”

“I didn’t.” Anora took a deep breath and fought for calm. 

It was the reaction she’d expected. If only she’d thought to ask why Eleanor wanted to pull her along - but she hadn’t. Now all she could do was try to repair the breach. 

“I swear on my - our - love of Ferelden, Alistair. She asked me a week ago, and I didn’t know what to do. It’s why I told her that I would never be her mama. She had one of those. But mother? I...I would like to. There are Mothers and Revered Mothers…”

The little Princess was loved, but it was still a lonely life. Not that she would _ever_ say that to Alistair; the girl was everything to him. Instead, she refused to meet his look of utter betrayal with any anger of her own.

“If you can’t, I understand. I can tell her if you can’t.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t do this?”

“No. I had no idea. She didn’t even tell me why she wanted us to come see you today, the stubborn little chit.”

An almost-smile caught the edge of his lips, making a caricature of a face meant for humor. It _hurt._ “A true Ferelden rose, you’re saying?”

“Just like her mama.”

He sighed, but there was enough drama to ease her own tension. “I never could tell her mama no, either.”

Now she stepped closer, offering him - something. He took it, and they held each other for a moment, head on the other’s shoulder. They let the silence last for a time.

“I swore to you then, Alistair. I’m not her mama. I’ll never try to take her place.” Even _she_ wouldn’t say ‘Candide’ in front of him. It wasn’t _quite_ an apology, what she whispered into his shoulder.

His response wasn’t quite an apology either. But like hers, it was enough. His little girl _was_ a Ferelden rose. Neither of them would _ever_ stop holding her close, even if it sometimes meant they’d bleed.

“I know, Nor. I know. Now, come on so we can get Uncle Fergus out of whatever she’s scheming up this time.”


End file.
